Tommy, I'm Not Dead
by INzaneTJ
Summary: TDC Spoilers. What if Thomas hadn't been able to fully kill Newt? What if his friend was still in the world, slowly being consumed by the Flare? What if he could be saved? Rated T for gore.
1. Prologue

**A/N: This story is dedicated to Newt, and my way of writing him back to life. :)**

**This is mainly about Newt, but also has Minho and a few other Gladers. The only cautioning is violence, and a non-Glader character death (not an OC either). However, this contains a mix of action/thriller/emotional stuff. It will mainly be third person-omniscient, but the prologue and epilogue are under POV's. Thank you for reading this. Reviews are welcome. I'll do my best to make this sad, but happy in another way!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own TMR. Dashner owns it. I wish Newt was mine though! :)**

**Enjoy!**

Prologue

I couldn't keep waiting.

I couldn't understand why he wouldn't do it.

It was my only wish.

It was my last wish on this unwholesome earth.

I knew he could help me.

He would end my misery.

But he hesitated.

He didn't want to do it.

I understand why, for we both were friends.

But I needed him to do it, just a simple act.

His dark eyes showed he was capable.

Yet his dark eyes showed more than that.

They showed pity.

They showed compassion.

They showed reluctance.

They showed remorse.

They showed love.

It would he hard, yet at the same time it wouldn't.

He just needed to squeeze that trigger.

And my suffering would end.

Permanently.

It would all come to an end.

He wouldn't need to see it either, to witness a friend go mad.

He would leave with the others, and be happy.

Wouldn't he?

I wrote that note, and I meant it with all my heart.

My friends wouldn't do what I asked, anyone except him.

I hate him for hesitating.

But I don't hate him.

"Please, Tommy," I had pleaded in earnest.

But he wasn't moving.

I wanted to stay, to live a real life outside of the Maze.

I knew I couldn't.

I knew I would go insane.

Then I cried.

The tears fell no matter how hard I tried to be strong.

"I can't take it anymore," I whispered.

Something changed in the boy's eyes, something that told me he was ready.

So was I.

In that moment, he squeezed the trigger and ended it.

Ended it all.

I didn't feel anything, nothing at all.

Then one thought invaded my dying self.

Where do people go after death?

I saw nothing, an empty void.

I was expecting heaven with golden streets and angels of light.

I was expecting if not a fiery chasm, where the devil awaited my broken soul.

But there was neither.

There was nothing at all.

I opened my eyes, and saw something through my blurred vision.

A pool of dark red obscured it.

As my eyes cleared, I saw dirt.

I saw blood.

I saw everything I had seen before.

Except my friend.

Was I not dead?

Then I felt it.

I felt pain radiating from somewhere in my weary body.

But it wasn't from my head.

**By Casey Aldrich**


	2. Chapter 1: Awake to a Troubled World

**A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews! :)**

**Sorry about a horribly late update! I had final exams and lots, and lots of quizzes and papers (plus, I was punished from writing)!**

Chapter 1

Awake to the World's Troubles

Newt stares in bewilderment at the chaos surrounding him, of people killing each other.

How can it be?

He's alive, still a Crank in the making.

How come Tommy didn't do it?

He grits his teeth, shifting his head to get a look at the wound.

A hole has been torn in the flesh of his pale, left shoulder.

Blood gushes out, seeping into his skin and running down his old clothes.

Newt tentatively reaches out to touch it, hand trembling from the persistent pain.

He gingerly pulls the shirt down to look further at the mess. His limbs are weak from the lack of blood, and he stifles a scream.

A Crank nearby pipes up. Part of his matted hair has been torn off along with his scalp.

He eyes Newt's bullet wound curiously, slowly limping toward the boy.

Lights dance in Newt's vision, mixed with rage and fear. S

cared of the harsh reality that he will go insane.

Alone.

He'll be a corpse for the Cranks to feed off. He nearly throws up with the realization that he _is_ a Crank.

Newt is one of them.

Eyes locked ahead, he gropes for anything to keep the other Crank away from him. His fingers curl around something hold and sharp—the ends of a rusty clipping shear.

He brings it forward in his right hand, dragging it on the destroyed asphalt. Newt doesn't scream, or tell it to go away—he knows it won't.

The Crank's knee bends inward, broken bone protruding from the pink flesh, several fingers missing on one hand.

The man's chipped teeth chatter, his blood-shot eyes roving in their sockets like an egg embryo.

"Back off," Newt hisses through gritted teeth.

He weakly attempts to raise the shears, but only manages to send more pain up his mess of a shoulder. Dark circles form around the edges of his vision as the Crank corners him, stalking him, a vulture approaching a wounded animal about to die.

"No," Newt whispers.

This can't be happening.

To get shot by his best friend, to contract an incurable disease that leads to insanity, and then to get torn alive by a Crank is too much.

_Tommy, if you were here right now, I'd shoot you myself. Why did you do this to me?_

Newt bites his lip to hold back tears. He clutches the shears in a useless grasp, unable to move away.

The Crank is taking his time, savoring every moment of its prey's fear, its misery.

Newt's brown eyes frantically scan his surroundings, but sees nothing except madness. He wants to curl up and die, to go quickly without any pain.

And then at the oddest time to remember something, he remembers.

_My name is Brodie Ashford._

* * *

_Please, Tommy! Please!_

"Thomas." Minho's voice catches the brunette's attention.

"Yeah?"

The Asian boy bundles up his blanket, shoving it against the tree. He looks at his friend, tilting his head to the side. "We gotta go. Something's bothering you though."

Thomas forces a smile, pushing Newt's voice out of his head. Well, trying to. "Nothing's buggin' me."

_Kill me!_

Minho shrugs and then walks off to discuss with Sonya the issue of exploration. Food is getting scarce. He stops and adds over his shoulder, "Call a Gathering. We need to talk."


	3. Chapter 2: Survival

**A/N: Thank you NewtnTMR and fiercetiger33 for your shucking awesome reviews!**

**Oh my goodness! I heard from more than one person that The Scorch Trials trailer is coming out tomorrow! Is anyone else dying to see it? Stupid question. Who wouldn't want to see Newt? :D :D :D**

**Did anyone get my joke about Newt's name?**

Chapter 2

Survival

Newt almost drops the shears. His name. For a split second, he forgets the Crank, the world around, and the danger he is in.

His name.

It was the one thing he wanted desperately to remember, but what use is it now? He's going to die.

The Crank collapses in a writhing heap in front of him, hissing as his bloody leg drags him down. Newt grits his teeth.

He seizes the opportunity to attack, a burst of adrenaline coursing through his tormented body.

His knuckles turn white as he lifts the shears, beats of sweat rolling down his pale skin. Knives stab his shoulder, pain digging into the flesh and bone like someone is drilling a larger hole in it.

The Crank's head snaps to the side. The insane man is looking elsewhere at another horde of violent people.

Newt holds in a scream as he slams the wrench down—into the Crank's skull. Bone crunches beneath the weapon. A scream cuts the air.

It reverberates through the destroyed vicinity, nothing different than what had just been happening all along. The Cranks don't even look in their direction.

Strong fingers latch onto Newt's bicep.

He wrenches away as a new wave of pain explodes in his shoulder. The Crank sinks his teeth into the blond's already tormented shoulder.

The rim of his vision darkens. He smacks the man with the shears again—and again.

"Get the bloody hell off me!" he growls, blinded by fear and rage.

His insides churn as a large gash opens up on the Crank's head.

Newt drops the shears as the man shakes his body like a hunting dog tearing a boar. His flesh rips, teeth sinking deeper. _Bang_! A shot cuts off the Crank's attack. The man drops limply on top of the blond, blood gushing out of his head.

The weight forces the air out of Newt's lungs. His ears ring, drowning out his raspy breaths from his crushed chest.

Someone materializes at his side.

A young man in his twenties hunches over him, shoving a handgun in his holster. He pushes the Crank off him with ease and puts a hand on his arm.

"Can you hear me?"

Newt shrugs him off, grunting from the pain.

"I'm a Crank," he says weakly. "Don't come near me."

The man shakes his head, brown bang falling in his face.

"I'm a Munie. I'm taking you to my place. Can you stand?"

Newt knows the answer immediately, but a sudden urge to live takes over. He wants to live. He wants to see his friends again.

The blond shifts around to get his legs under his body. The man grabs his arm, wraps it around his neck over his shoulder.

Newt screams. He forces himself to his feet, although most of his weight goes to the stranger.

"My truck's just around the corner. On three, we're gonna run like hell and gun it. Sorry in advance for any pain."

Newt nods. He just wants this over with.

"Okay. One, two…three," he whispers.

As soon as the words leave the man's mouth, Newt bolts forward, leaning against the stranger.

His life is in someone else's hands.

**A/N: Yes...Newt goes through more. But he'll be hanging on like the strong boy he is. It's one of the many reasons why we love the shank. :) Thank you so much for reading and please reveiw! You make my week!**

**Casey Aldrich**


	4. Chapter 3: Cranks

**A/N: Thank you BookLoverDutch, Embers to Ashes, NewtnTMR and guest for your awesome, awesome reveiws! :D**

**Guest: Thank you! Yes, that was unexpected. I had pictured him to be a little more like a rodent. XD**

**I've been checking for The Fever Code information. On the Internet, I found out it's going to be written in Newt's POV! Oh, yes and The Scorch Trials looks like books two and three combined! I can't believe what they're not doing, but Newt's in there. So...good that. :)**

Chapter 3

Cranks

Minho folds his arms, snorting at Sonya. "That's stupid."

The female Runner crosses her ankles and leans her back against the rough bark of the tree.

"Why not? We can send the men to scour the area. The women can take care of the camp and children."

"We don't know if anything's out there."

"Plus," Frypan adds to support Minho, "The place might be attacked while we're gone and everyone will be defenseless. Half the group."

Minho nods his approval.

"Half the able men split up and search for supplies. The other half keep the place in order and protect everyone."

He swears under his breath after stumbling over the word _order_. It's a painful reminder that Newt is gone.

If he were here, everything would be functioning at its fullest with no panicked people. Paradise is only real paradise when the population actually is calm.

"We'll take a vote," Minho finally announces.

Instead of the original Gathering, he has made it even simpler.

"Raise your hand if you agree with Sonya."

The group consists of twelve people: Minho, Gally, Frypan, Thomas, Jeff, Sonya, Harriet, Aris, Jorge, and another shank named Martin.

Five raise their hands. Minho suppresses a grin.

"Now my suggestion." Seven to five.

He wins with ease.

"Okay then. Thomas, Sonya, and Jeff—stay behind with the injured. The rest of you, gather at least twenty men."

"Girls can do it too," Harriet says sharply, glaring at Minho.

"I don't want them getting hurt."

Gally rolls his eyes at the argument and unnecessary hero act as the group disperses.

Out of all people, he ends up teaming with Jorge. Both ignore each other, just wanting to get the job done.

_It's gonna be a long day_, Gally thinks.

* * *

Newt forces his weak legs to match the stranger's speed. The only thing he can focus on is the ever-present pain—and the goal.

He loses his footing, tripping over something sharp.

The blond hits the cement on a knee before being dragged back up by the man.

The sound of feet slapping the ground is followed by a shriek. Several Cranks are a meter away.

"We're almost there," he whispers.

"Just a corner away."

Panic surfaces. Warm blood pulses in Newt's ears. He limps around the corner into a narrow alley where a battered truck is parked diagonally.

The man jerks the passenger door open. Newt clambers in, shutting it as the stranger makes for the driver's side. Four Cranks are limping with terrifying speed, only feet away from the vehicle. The man tumbles in the seat, yanking the door.

It jams.

A writhing hand is wedged in the door its fingers gripping his leg.

The Crank forces it open. Its torn, bleeding head materializes, nose split neatly down the middle.

Newt pales three shades.

It screeches, shaking violently, matted hair flinging in all directions as he claws its way into the truck. The man kicks what used to be another man in the face with a steel-toed boot.

It doesn't budge. He kicks again, freeing his leg enough to stomp on the gas pedal.

With a squeal of tires, the truck lurches forward down the alley.

Newt clutches his seat as several Cranks slam into the vehicle. A row of bumps tells Newt the sickening reality—they just ran them over.

The Crank in the door loses its grip, landing in a bloody heap against the wall.

The man locks the doors and straps his seatbelt on.

He turns to face Newt, still keeping his eyes on the dangerous road ahead.

"Why are you helping me?" the blond asks, clenching his hands into fists.

Why save a Crank? He's almost Gone already.

The man ignores the question, shoving the gun against his fist. "Take it. More are coming. You might need it."

"You didn't bloody answer me."

"I'll tell you when we get there. How's your shoulder?"

The man returns the gun to its respective place and refocuses his attention on the oncoming horde.

Newt jerks his head sideways, unable to control the spasm. He wants to lunge at the man and gut him and…

What the shuck is he thinking?

**A/N: What the shuck is he going to do? Is it The Flare? Or something else? Who is this stranger and what is he planning on doing to Newt?**

**Thank you for reading and please reveiw, my dear readers! :)**

**Casey**


	5. Chapter 4: Blaze

**A/N: Thank you Embers to Ashes, NewtnTMR, and Guest for your shucking fantastic reviews! :)**

**I was going to update sooner, but once in a while I grounded from the computer instead of having my phone taken away. Too bad it wasn't the latter. But anyway, without further ado:**

Chapter 4

Blaze

Newt tries to prevent the thoughts from entering. He re-focuses on the pain to hold the insanity wave at bay, lightly touching the torn flesh. A low hiss escapes through his gritted teeth.

The stranger uses his knees to hold the steering wheel in place as he strips his black jacket off and hands it to Newt. "Here."

The blond presses it against the wound to stop the blood from gushing out. It isn't working.

Warm, vital fluid soaks the material. More of it seeps between his sticky, twitching fingers as if daring him to cage it up.

Talking might distract him.

"What's your name?" he quickly asks.

"Blaze. You?"

Newt hesitates.

Should he use his real name? Or the one he's shared with his fellow Gladers as far as he remembers?

But his name spells out WICKED.

_Shuck it! It's a bloody name, for goodness sake! _He scolds himself inwardly.

"Brodie."

The man's face becomes a pallid and he grips the steering wheel tighter.

Newt notices the tension in the stranger's body: biceps taut like a rope stretched almost beyond limit.

"What's your last name?"

"Ashford," Newt responds tentatively, pushing the jacket down harder.

"Do you recognize me?" Blaze asks, head whipping around to face him.

Newt studies the man's physical appearance. Brown scruff, short hair, muddy eyes, and an upturned nose—like his.

Unlike him though is the size of Blaze.

He's still long but not lanky and skinny—the man is more compact with tan skin.

"No," he responds after a beat.

Blaze's face falls. "Do you remember Allie?"

"No." Newt pauses, and then adds, "I only have had a memory for two years."

He hopes his re-phrase doesn't sound too suspicious—that he's avoiding saying that his memories were wiped out by an organization.

It would sound absurd.

"You did?" Blaze turns back to the road, making a sharp turn to another narrow alley between two dilapidated buildings.

The Cranks are still there in the distance, limping toward them.

"I did."

"I know this is going to sound weird, but listen to me."

The man glances over his shoulder again before making another turn.

"I'm an Ashford too. Do you have scar on your right hip?"

Newt's eyes widen.

"How did you know that?" he demands, suddenly wondering if jumping out of the car isn't such a bad idea.

Blaze smiles sadly.

"I had a little brother. His name was Brodie Ashford and looked kind of like you. I lost him to WICKED when he was a kid."

The words barely have time to register when the man stomps on the brake pedal. The truck squeals to a halt in front of a crumbling, concrete building. Graffiti decorates the walls.

"We can't get you there in time. We'll stop here for the night and take care of the wound."

He leans in close, prying the jacket off Newt. Then he checks the wound for any traces of foreign objects—excluding the bullet lodged somewhere in his shoulder

Two rotting canines are imbedded in Brodie's flesh. Both are chipped and brown, belonging to the Crank that bit him.

"We'll need to take care of it right away. I'll help you inside."

Blaze undoes his seatbelt and goes around the truck. He pops open the door as Newt takes off his restraining belt, and gently slides an arm under his armpit.

"One, two—"

From Newt's peripheral vision, he makes out a face hanging over the windshield.

"Watch out!"

A Crank swings its body over the side of the truck, headfirst, arms spread out. It tackles Blaze, tearing him away from Newt. The blond lands in a painful heap as man and Crank hit the ground.

It head butts him once. Twice. Then it cackles as its hands find a strong grip on Blaze's throat.

Newt picks himself up, frantically searching for some kind of weapon.

The gun.

He dives for Blaze's weapon as the Crank throws the man forward.

Newt hits the ground, stomach, elbows, and knees receiving the brunt of the impact.

A knife runs through his shoulder, a deep pain that rattles his bone.

Adrenaline keeps it away enough he reacts. He latches onto the Crank's legs, hands somehow able to grip them tightly.

It kicks.

A bloody foot connects with his jaw.

* * *

Gally mindlessly tosses a rock over the side of the hill.

From his vantage point, he can make out the others searching Paradise with a great deal of effort. Especially Minho.

That stupid kid was going to yell at him later for "slacking".

Oh well. Gally isn't ready to listen to him.

He leans back against the tree trunk, the rough bark digging into his flesh. Of course, paradise was far from it.

Mosquitoes were trying to make a meal out him and the entire group of the remaining population.

Several people had gone down with malaria recently. Gally scratched his burnt neck from a relentless sun over head.

"We should've stay in the shuck Maze", he mutters, tossing another rock.

The ground beneath him starts to tremble slightly.

Gally shoots to his feet, wide-eyed as it parts through the center. Suddenly, his legs are in the air, his entire body plummeting earthward.

Before he can even scream, he slams against something hard.

Cold.

Solid.

"Shucks!" He hisses as he pushes himself to a knee. Metal scrapes his flesh, opens a deep gash in his calf. Pain explodes in his leg, forcing him back on the floor. He swears before getting up again to a world of grey light.

But when he makes out his surroundings, he pales several shades.

"_No_!"

**A/N: Now Newt has a Crank to deal with. Is Blaze really his brother? Who is Allie? What do you think scared Gally so badly? The next chapter is dedicated to what has been going on in "Paradise". After that, it focuses on Newt and Blaze and...more. ;)**

**Thank you so much for reading and please reveiw, my awesome readers! :D :D :D**

**Casey Aldrich**


	6. Chapter 5: Beneath Paradise

**A/N: Thank you so much, BookLoverDutch, Embers to Ashes, ShadowArcher013, and NewtnTMR for your epic reviews! :D**

**Here is our beloved Paradise! The other characters will be re-introduced in here soon (such as the other Gladers)! The next one is about Newt! ;)**

**Enjoy!**

Chapter 5

Beneath Paradise

Above Gally is a pale, blue sky without a single cloud.

A thin ray of light slices through to show the room where he kneels on one knee, hands on the ground to support himself.

Down fifteen feet below the sky thick, metal grates surround him.

Beneath his shoes is the same thing. But this time, there is no rope. There are no Gladers to pull him out.

He is alone.

He is in The Box.

When the realization strikes him, he let's loose a blood-curdling shriek. The sound seems to bounce off the walls, right back into his mouth.

Why here? Why the hell was he in another box?

WICKED is gone.

The Right Arm has already destroyed it.

Forever.

Didn't they?

He shakes his head, snapping himself to the present issue. He gathers his legs underneath him, limbs spread like he is trying a core exercise, elbows receiving the brunt of his weight.

A warm, sticky substance travels down his calf. He swears as he pushes himself to his feet. Pain knifes through his leg again. He hits the grate on his knees again, hissing through gritted teeth.

"_Shoot_!"

Of course when he mentioned the Maze, he had to end up in some stupid underground box with a wire in his leg.

Great.

He leans back on his haunches and assesses the bloody wound.

A wide gash has opened up in the flesh, about—he probes it with his fingers—three inches wide or more.

Gally sighs as he begins ripping the fringe of his shirt off for a bandage.

It's been a while since anything major has happened.

Since going through the whole thing with the Right Arm, he had fallen back once in Paradise.

People established a camp in the center of a forest—it took two weeks to clear the whole thing.

They called themselves the New People and scoured the place for food. They discovered edible plants and wild animals up on higher ground.

Minho was still a pain in the rear and became the current leader. Gally was in charge of building, probably ordered to make him feel more at home.

It wasn't the same. Clint, Jeff, Minho, Thomas, and himself respectively are the only remaining Gladers alive.

At least, he thinks so.

Minho explained about when he last saw Newt.

Gally had always hated the kid, but he felt sorry for him—living through all that only to go insane in the end.

Alby had died to save everyone yet his sacrifice failed miserably.

Of course, the whole thing with Chuck has always made him sick. Poor boy.

Gally dreamt of him in his sleep, all the time. When he woke up in the dead of night near Thomas, he would hear the brunette whispering in his sleep.

It's probably about Newt.

He doesn't know the half of it.

With a grunt, Gally finishes tying off the bandage.

* * *

Minho's almond eyes scan the area once again. Where the shuck is Gally?

He pulls Thomas aside, pushing him behind a cluster of trees.

"You seen Gally?"

Thomas shakes his head softly and starts to leave. Minho grabs his arm again, yanks him inches away from his face.

"What's the problem this time?"

Thomas wrenches his forearm free, not looking his friend in the eyes.

"I don't have one."

"Is that so?"

"I'm fine."

"Slim it, Tommy. You don't need to go running off every buggin time I talk to ya."

The brunette gives him a sharp look, flames in his dark eyes. His body visibly trembles.

But he speaks softly, "Don't call me that."

Minho looks at him apologetically and holds both hands up. "Sorry."

"What do you want?"

"Thomas, what exactly is wrong with you? Ever since we re-grouped at WICKED, you've been acting very strange. Okay? Is there something wrong with being concerned?"

Thomas's shoulders sag—he looks like he might crumple up into a ball and cry. There's definitely something. And he's not speaking up.

The first thing out of Thomas's mouth is, "I'm okay."

"I beg to differ."

"You know what? Fine. Yeah, there's something. But if you keep pushing, I'm not gonna hold back. I've had enough. Quit asking me."

"But you're hurting yourself. What would Newt say? He—"

That's it.

Thomas covers his ears, a string of curses coming freely from his mouth.

"Shut up! Okay, just shut up! I don't want to hear that name again! Okay? No. Never! Leave. Me. _Alone_!"

He storms off, earning stares from the other people.

Minho decides it'd be best not to make a cutting remark—it'll only push Thomas further away.

Maybe this has something to do with his nightmares. Maybe he's blaming himself for leaving Newt.

Admittedly, he feels responsible himself. He's the leader. He left Newt there to be ripped apart, killed, and who-knows-what.

Minho releases an angry scream.

He doesn't care what the others think.

The only thing that matters is what's wrong. Newt's gone.

That's what's wrong.

He's gone and can never be replaced again.

Minho feels it—a horrible, empty space where someone keeps stabbing his bleeding heart. He's never been mushy, never cried about it.

It only frustrates him more.

Instead of going about, yelling how much things suck, he sets off to find Gally.

**A/N: Will Minho find Gally? Will Thomas say anything about what he did to Newt? Why is there a box in Paradise in the first place? Is it really Paradise? Yes! Not a bad cliffhanger this time, right?! Just left good ol' Gally suspended in a metal box alone?**

**Thank you ever so much for reading! Please review! :)**

**Casey Aldrich**


	7. Chapter 6: Holing Up

**A/N: Thank you so, so, so much NewtnTMR, Whiteness (Guest), Embers to Ashes, 013 (Guest), and Soggy-Ninjago679G for your reveiws!**

**Finally! Here's the chapter I was supposed to update how many weeks ago? ;)**

**Enjoy! **

**Casey**

Chapter 6

Holing Up

Newt's head snaps to the right. He finds himself sprawled sideways on the ground watching the Crank lunge for Blaze. Pain stabs his shoulder. Something is drilling a hole in his bones and slowly stripping his flesh off with a knife. The world turns a shade darker but he can make out a struggle.

Blaze is kicking the Crank. It only enrages the Gone as it slams its fist into his stomach. The gun is only several feet between Newt and the assailant. He pushes his body up on an anemic elbow, extending the length of his arm.

Grabs it.

Pulls the slide back.

Squeezes the trigger.

_Bang_! A deafening shot cuts through the air. Miss. Splinters scatter across the cement from the door. Newt takes aim again, keeping the muzzle pointed at the Crank's back. Before he can react a fist connects with his jaw.

_Crunch_. Newt shoots a second time and then a third as the Crank repeatedly hammers its knuckles against his bones. Blood oozes out from his attacker's stomach and broken limbs. The bullets don't faze it. Blaze materializes behind the Crank, sweaty hands out. "Gun!" Newt tosses it to him as an elbow slams into his chest, knocking the wind out of him.

_Bang_! _Bang_! _Bang_!

The Crank crumples on the ground in a heaping mess next to him. He holds in the strong urge to throw up. Blaze holsters his gun and helps him to his battered, abused feet; then heads for the entrance. Newt realizes he'd just made a nice bullet hole in the bottom somewhere during the attack.

He growls through the ever-present pain. As the adrenaline ebbs away he feels every place the Crank hit him—too many to count. But none match his shoulder. Blaze loosens the knife in his sheath clipped to his belt. He pushes the door open with a light shove. It swings inward, creaking on rusty hinges and producing a faint echo inside. The place is dimly light by one bulb that dangles from a chain.

Blaze scans the interior for any intruders or changes. All clear. He locks the door, shifting Newt uncomfortably before continuing down the narrow hallway. Debris, crates, and empty cans litter the floor. Glass crunches beneath his boots and his brother's thinner shoes.

Newt groans. His brown eyes show a lot of pain mixed with extreme fatigue. Every time he take a stuttering step Blaze wonders if he'll suddenly hit the floor and pass out.

"We'll be there soon. We're going a couple floors up in case any more Cranks get in." Newt nods weakly. At least he understands what's going on enough to respond.

**Ten Minutes Later…**

"Tssssssss! Get your bloody hands—"

"Just hold still," Blaze commands, firmly gripping Newt's arm.

He cuts the rest of the boy's shirt off using a knife with a twelve-inch blade. Grabbing a plastic bucket of water, he dips the material in and wrings it out. He presses it against Newt's mangled shoulder. The boy's pallid face contorts and he latches onto Blaze's leg with surprising strength.

"Talk to me," Newt whispers.

"What?"

"Just bloody talk, Shuckface. It hurts."

Blaze digs into one of the bags he had brought from floor two and produces a bottle of hydrogen peroxide. _This is gonna really sting_, he thinks as he pours some onto the shirt. "What's _Shuckface_?"

"Something my friends and I made up." Newt averts his gaze. He misses the Gladers: Alby, Minho, Chuck, Frypan, Zart, Ted, Sam, Jack, and—heck—even Gally.

Why did they have to die? Only two of them might've even made it. But to where? The whole world is infested with the Flare and WICKED doesn't have a cure. He tries to think of something good as the image of Tommy pointing the gun at him flashes in front of his eyes. Then fire assaults his shoulder—a burning, stinging, shucking pain that comes out of nowhere.

"Shucks!" Blaze is pouring something on the wound.

"Sorry. This is supposed to clean it. Anyway, keep talking. What can you remember?"

Newt hesitates. Should he tell this man—allegedly his older brother—about the last two years? Or maybe… "I can't remember a lot. You're saying I'm Brodie. What was my life like back then? Did I have other family members?"

"WICKED took you when you were five. The Sun Flares struck the year before but you did have a happy life. Yeah, we had Mom and Dad. Also two other siblings. Our sister was a baby when you left but she caught the Flare soon after." Blaze pauses, pulling a metal box out of the bag and rummaging through its contents.

"We have an older brother—Jax. He's twenty-eight and lives at an abandoned warehouse. I'm living with him and a group of Munies. I'll take you there when you can get up on your own." Blaze shows Newt a set of tweezers. "I'm gonna get the bullet out, okay?" The blond nods.

"How'd you get your limp?"

Newt grimaces. Might as well tell him, since it doesn't matter anymore. "I climbed a wall and jumped off. But I hadn't gone up high enough so I woke up alive."

Blaze's eyes widen in alarm as he digs the metal into the boy's flesh. Newt tightens his grip on him, fingers digging into his leg. After a while, he ventures to ask the question: "Why'd you do it."

Newt takes a deep breath and then tells him everything.

**A/N: Here we go! No heart attacks and no cliffhanger for once! :) But we'll see about the next one...**


	8. Chapter 7: Safest Grave

**A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews! Phew! I'm finally back!**

**RadioactiveBook9 (Guest): Thank you! Really? XD Guess it's all perception. :P**

**ShellyTheCat (Guest): Not quite, but it can be used for pretty much the same thing. Thank you! For sure. :)**

**CheetahGirl9X9 (Guest): I will! Thank you! :) Finishing each story is like an unspoken rule.**

**Here we go!**

Chapter 7

Safest Grave

Newt lets his eyelids slide shut. Red splotches replace the worn, cracked room and a stunned Blaze.

The sudden silence hangs over him like a thick cloud of tension.

If his alleged brother doesn't believe him, it doesn't matter. Nothing matters anymore.

He's not immune. Why would the Munies take him in until he tried to strangle one of them? He's a time bomb waiting to explode.

Each second that ticks by feels a second closer to the madness within, the loss of self-control Newt fights every waking moment. Terror grips him like shackles in his own prison—his brain.

What if he hurts someone? What if he turns and kills the man helping him?

Worse, what if he eats… He twitches involuntarily and then tenses his painful arms. That won't happen.

Maybe it's better he's been shot. At least if he loses it, Blaze can easily restrain him. Restrain…

Newt opens his eyes and notices the young man staring at him, legs crossed, a fist clutching the teeth from his shoulder. The sight of it unsettles him.

"Go ahead and sleep. I'll be up for a while. Cranks—_they_ won't get here without me knowing it."

Newt takes a deep breath, steadying his weak insides before responding. "Tie me up."

Blaze shakes his head, and doesn't even seem surprised. "That stuff with the Maze doesn't sound far-fetched. Anything is possible these days. You feel pain. You're not gonna get off the floor and jump around, but I guarantee you won't stay that way long. Even if you try attacking, I'm immune. I've have dealt with this before." He pauses.

None of what he just said makes sense to Newt. It's true the pain will hinder him, but some Cranks seem just fine with broken, mangled limbs…or lack thereof.

"Don't sleep in the same room at least," Newt insists, "That way you have more time to get your weapon." He winces, realizing he means,_ blow my shucked brains on the wall if I get up_.

"I'll be on floor one. Anyone tries to get in, and I'll barricade the door and windows; then come here. Ain't no grave safer than this place."

Newt nods.

"You need anything, press this."

Blaze places a black, circular device with a blue button on it, in the boy's weak hand. "In any emergency, press this one."

He hands Newt another with a red button, and claps his hands, leaning back on his haunches. "Okay, I'll be downstairs. Good that?"

Newt smiles grimly at the use of Glader language. Still, it doesn't compensate for all his lost friends; he doesn't know if they're alive, or, or dead, or worse, Cranks. He shudders, trying to push the terrible images from his mind.

"Good that."

The boy pulls a blanket tighter over him and drifts the world of nightmares, not hearing the Cranks gathering just outside the building.

* * *

"Gally! Shuckface, where are you?" a voice half hisses, half yells. The words carry a slightly annoyed effect, but the tone betrays the panic, however slight.

Gally looks up from the Box, and squints to see through the dark. Moonbeams light the outer lining, revealing an approaching shadow.

Someone knows he's there. Someone knows!

Groaning, the boy rolls over, pushing onto his elbows. Fire shoots through his calf and spreads up his entire leg, then sends him back to the metal grate.

He grits his teeth and tries again. He manages to get to one knee before cupping his hands and shouting, "Down here!"

"Where?" the voice howls as the shadow pulls up short near the edge. Is that…Minho?

"Down—"

A blood-curdling shriek cuts across Paradise, and the shadow whips around the moment another shape lunges. Minho flips backward and lands in the Box.

Out cold.

**A/N: Okay, the end was what I wrote today (I already fried my brain writing my novel and another story :P), and I forgot about it. O_o Whoops! I'll work harder to make the next chapter better and more detailed. Thank you so much for reading and please review! :)**

**-Casey Aldrich**


	9. Chapter 8: Tie Me Up

**A/N: Thank you so much for your awesome reviews! :)**

**Now for our Newtie Boy. ;)**

Chapter 8

Tie Me Up

Newt jerks awake, bloodshot eyes darting across the grey room, rasping weakly as he struggles to suppress the rage boiling up inside. He doesn't even know why, but he hates everything—everyone.

_Slim it_, he chides himself. _There ain't nothin' wrong with them. It's the Creators' fault._ Time for the Wake Up. Again. Alby better wait for him to greet the Greenie, and the get the supplies, though he's sure…

The recent events attack Newt like a sudden knife in the gut, and he has to catch his breath, eyes shut to the world of angry lights. His fingers twitch, images of his close friends' deaths replaying in his mind repeatedly, especially Alby's. Him running forward. The Grievers tearing at him. Eating him alive. The screams.

After the surviving Gladers had struck every last monster down, Newt had knelt by the young man's mangled, almost unrecognizable body. Six, ten-inch spikes protruded from his flesh. His eyes stared above at nothing, the painful expression frozen on his bloated, shredded face.

Blood was everywhere. He'd slipped on the sticky mess that permeated the floor, and his dear friend's limbs and torso. Bruises, abrasions, and lacerations riddled his stomach as if the Grievers had mainly aimed for the center, but it was too much. Newt hadn't cried. He'd expected someday that if Alby died first, he'd curl up in a ball and waste away from the overwhelming grief.

Maybe it was the adrenaline. Maybe it was the fact that more than half of them were dead. He didn't know. It's just, when the time came, he'd squeezed Alby's hand, closed his eyes, and wordlessly said goodbye. It was like leaving behind more than a friend—he didn't even remember anyone he'd ever cared for—, it was leaving a brother without a funeral, leaving his corpse on the cold stone of many brave Gladers' graves. It's something he'll never forget.

His eyes adjust to the darkness, bringing the room and its almost bare contents into focus. Concrete. Tarp. A bookcase lies on its side, the chipped, wood shelves stacked with miscellaneous items. The only thing that stands out to him is a crate hastily bolted shut with crisscross boards that sits ten feet away. It spikes his curiosity, and although some part of him warns to leave it alone, he shoves it aside, and starts to move his elbows underneath him. His left arm collapses, throwing off balance, and sending him onto the hard floor with a dull _thud_. The room tilts sideways.

Newt blinks several times, shakes his head to clear the incessant lights and grogginess that lingers like a phantom over his heavy eyes. He could go back to sleep… The box seemed to call to him, to sit there impatiently urging him to get up and open it.

_Newt._

The boy's eyes flicked across the room, but everything remained the same. Quiet. Intact. He reached to pull the blanket off when noticed why his arm wasn't budging. An IV needle had been stuck in a vein, attached by a cord to a nearly empty, plastic bag.

He can't feel the bloody mess of his limp shoulder, and knows that isn't a good sign, though it can be from pain medication. What else does someone do with an IV? The lack of the fiery, searing pain to him is the best thing that's happened in his scattered memories.

_Newt._

There it is again, a faint, indistinct voice seeming to appear from nowhere, and everywhere at once. He shakes his head. He must be losing it again, or he's too stressed and worried over Tommy to think straight.

"Congratulations. You're brain has officially been cooked by Frypan," he mutters aloud, scared to be alone. Should he get Blaze? Something holds him back, and he continues in a low murmur that echoes throughout the space to fill the emptiness eating away at him, "And thanks to you, Tommy, I'm still in this bloody world. I don't know where you are, and I thought maybe I could see Alby. You shucked up, big time."

Newt rips the IV from his arm, and throws it in a sudden fit of rage. Why has everyone left him? _You told them to, you Shank_, he reminds himself.

_Newt_.

Newt ignores the repetitive voice, dismissing it as common Crank nonsense that happens to the Gone. The lights won't leave. "Chuck, I know I wasn't nice to you. Gally, I wish Tommy had finished you off back in the beginning…" He trails off into a whisper of some broken song in the back of his old memories; then stops himself. What is he doing?

"What are you doing?" a voice asks, mirroring his thoughts. Blaze, a handgun holstered at his hip, and a machete in his fist. Newt turns away, jaw clenched. His fingers twitch again, a strong desire to snatch the weapons, and burrow the blade in the man's chest surfaces in his conflicted self, a potent poison seeping deeper into his deprived killzone.

Blaze sets the machete on the floor, reaching for the IV needle next to Newt. The boy's eyes rove back and forth, sweeping the room in a spastic jerk. Back and forth. Back and forth. Not good. Blaze steadies himself for an attack, shoving the machete farther back with his foot while grabbing the IV bag, and searching for other signs in Brodie's demeanor.

"Are you feeling better?"

Newt doesn't answer, but instead grips his own trembling hand like its possessed.

"Newt? What's wrong? Talk to me." _Don't start this again. Come on_, Blaze thinks and steadies the boy's arms.

"Tie me up."


End file.
